A Difference of Opinion
by MadgeM
Summary: The real reason Severus enjoys goading Minerva McGonagall into Quidditch bets.


Standard disclaimer: Not mine; am poor.

"It most certainly _was_ a foul!"

"Not unless our beloved Madam Hooch sees it," Severus Snape retorted cooly, following Minerva through the swinging side door leading into the staff-room.

It nearly hit him in the face. Severus dodged his fate neatly by sticking the odd arm out to catch it.

Minerva had already sailed over to the cupboards and was rummaging about with purpose.

"Yet another crushing blow to the Gryffindor house pride." Severus seated himself languidly on the overstuffed chair nearest the fire and put his feet up, observing his colleague from across the room. "Yet another victory for Slytherin."

"I would hardly call it a 'crushing blow,' Severus-- they were tied for three-quarters of the match and your _Mr. Malfoy_ had to foul _two_ of my best players and take them out of the game to get an upper hand." Minerva set the kettle on, water streaming from the tip of her wand and into the kettle's top. She began rummaging around in the cupboards down low.

"Young Malfoy takes advantage when he can find it. it's not my fault Hooch is going blind." He paused as Minerva hitched up her robes to the knee and proceeded to climb up on the counter, sifting through the contents of the highest cupboards with increasing irritation.

Severus licked his lips.

"What on earth are you doing, woman?"

"Making tea. What's it look like?" She snapped, not turning even to look at him.

"I can see you're making tea." Ordinarily, he would been annoyed and made some kind of stinging reply. Instead he settled for rolling his eyes. "What are you doing up there?"

"Looking for brandy to nip into the tea."

He sighed with exasperation.

"Accio brandy." He waved his wand.

A decanter with a plaid ribbon burst flying out of the cupboard to the immediate right of a very startled Minerva, who very nearly fell flat on her back but managed to transform into a tabby cat midair.

The bottle landed in Severus's outstretched hand. The tabby shook itself and once again became Minerva McGonagall advancing toward him with a scowl.

Severus straightened himself up, trying not to smirk. It didn't seem to work.

"What," she began in a husky growl, "do you think you are doing?

"Helping you." He held out the flask in the little space between them.

She grabbed the neck of the flask. He didn't relinquish his hold. _Not yet_, he calculated.

"Helping me? I was up on the counter--"

"Yes, you were up on the counter about to bloody well break your neck. Why on earth don't you simply use your wand?"

"I _enjoy_ doing things manually, sometimes!" she snapped.

"You didn't look like you were enjoying it," he pointed out, dark eyes piercing.

"Well, I do!" she snapped hotly. "I do when I'm ruddy well pissed off! The physical release is part of the tea!"

"And here I always thought your calming cup of tea was strictly Indian Spiced," Severus drawled. "As for physicality," his eyes glinted as he closed the little space between them, drawing her to him with one hand on the flagoon and another on her back, crushing her towards him in a deep kiss that shocked her. After a few moments he released her, her eyes wide open in astonishment. His face remained indecipherable.

She sputtered, mouth gaping.

The kettle began to steam shrilly, this time with real annoyance, as the staff room door swung open with abandon to reveal a Zip-a-dee-do-dah whistling headmaster.

Albus ceased whistling briefly mid-blow as Minerva and Severus did, he noticed, spring apart like wet cats caught in the rain.

He blinked, then settled for a shrug.

Minerva smoothed her robes and sailed past him out the door.

The headmaster turned to his remaining professor. "What's wrong with Minerva?"

Severus looked down at the tartan-clad flagon in his hand.

"I'm sure I don't know what goes on in women's heads. Now, if you'll excuse me, headmaster, Minerva seems to have left this behind... I'll see that she gets it."

The ghost of a smile appeared on his face, but as he turned, robes billowing behind him, Albus Dumbledore thought he must have imagined it.


End file.
